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The Birches

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Chapter 1: Chapter 1

“You wanna grab some lunch after class?”

Leo wasn’t listening, so when his friend Ollie hit him on the shoulder, nearly sending the huge bowl of meringues he had been carefully—if not obsessively—whipping into stiff peaks off the counter, he spun on his friend with such a look of rage that Ollie stepped back.

“You need to chill the fuck out,” Ollie said as he continued packing up his utensils.

Leo didn’t respond. He continued whipping the meringues, feeling his pulse pound and his wrist ache; his fingers were wrapped so tightly around the whisk that when he released it, he felt sharp pins corrupt his already broken concentration.

“That’s enough for tonight, gentleman,” their instructor, Chef Hueller, said. “Leo, maybe tomorrow you’ll make the perfect meringues,” Hueller said as he took the bowl from Leo and looked into it. “Then again, I have already told you that your meringues were fine. You are obsessive, if not psychotic.” Hueller walked over to the large sink behind them, dropped the bowl in it and said, “Go home, drink and get laid.”

Leo saw Ollie stifle a laugh.

“Fuck off,” Leo said as he grabbed his knives and left.

Ollie called out to him, but Leo didn’t stop walking to his 1969 Triumph motorcycle. Why he still rode the vintage bike, he had no idea. He needed a car, something more respectable that he could carry a cake home in.

“Leo!” Ollie called out, “Come on, dude, wait!”

Leo flipped Ollie off and sped out of the parking lot of Le Deux Divine Cooking Academy. It wasn’t until he was downtown that he felt his anger begin to subside. By the time he turned down his street, he felt noticeably better, despite the throbbing headache directly above his eyes. He slowed down to pull into his driveway, where his father greeted him.

“How was your day?” Leo’s father called from inside the garage.

Leo still lived with his father, a retired electrician who did his best to support his son’s artistic endeavors. “You want a beer? You look like you could use one.”

Leo got off his bike and then went to the huge storage refrigerator they had positioned in the back of the two-car garage, grabbed a beer, then slammed the door.

“Fucking meringues,” he said, taking the bottle opener his father offered and opened the beer so hard the cap went flying in the air.

“What are meringues?” Leo’s father asked before letting out a loud belch and then waving at the widow who lived across the street. The woman always seemed to be watering her lawn at the exact time his father found his way to the garage for his evening beer and paper.

“Don’t worry about it,” Leo said sharply before going over to the 1976 cherry red Stingray Corvette his father had been working on for him and leaned on it. His eyes followed his father’s across the street.

“Jesus, Dad, why don’t you invite her over?”

“Huh?” his father asked, tearing his eyes away from the woman long enough to look at his son. “Got a lot done on the car today, another month and you’ll be pulling outta the driveway in it.”

“Yeah?” Leo said as his left hand fall against the car, the cold metal reminding him again of his deflated meringues.

“Did you say something about pussy?” his father asked as if suddenly remembering something funny, his eyes twinkling. “Ever since your mom passed you just talk like you’re the king of the truck stops. I don’t think you ever swore when Mom was here.”

“Yeah, well, shit’s changed.” Leo made as if he was going to walk away, but felt his father’s eyes on him.

“You are so angry. You never used to be angry. You really that pissed about those meringues?”

“Dad, don’t.” Leo ignored his father’s glare, and grabbed two more beers and another folding chair, which he placed next to his dad.

“You mad at Widow Winslow over there?” his dad teased, nudging Leo jokingly, “or you mad that you’re still at home with your old man?”

“All of it,” Leo said before taking a drink. “And none of it.”

“Then what is your problem?” his father asked. “You got into that fancy cooking school, you’re on your way. I know you’re talented at this cooking shit, hell you practice morning, noon and night. Your mom was sure proud of you. She used to talk all the time about you becoming a famous chef. I wish she could see you now.” His father’s voice fell away and Leo could see a sadness begin to creep over his hardened face.

“I’m fine, Dad; just frustrated, fucking frustrated as hell. I want to be the best, you know. Like top notch, no-one-can-touch-me perfect.” Leo heard the last word cut the air and looked away, surprised at his own fervor.

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